In the land of golden spuds,
where the butter freely flows,
A kilogram of potatoes,
shaped into barrels,
they transpose.

Half the butter melts away
in a pan on medium heat;
The potatoes join the dance,
turning gently,
20 minutes in the oven—
browning neat.

A sprinkle of salt, a dash of pepper—
to the dance they lend their flavour;
The remaining butter joins the fray,
a taste for tongues to savour.

The dance concludes:
the spuds are tender,
their golden skin agleam;
Garnished with fresh parsley,
like a dream within a dream.

Now ready for the ball,
by the side of roast chicken—
what a call.